Annie Valentine

So we were taken hostage in Turkey.

But before I get into that, I should clarify that I’m not pregnant. Best news ever–almost. I have to admit that due to strange hormonal influences I’ve been thinking that I might, in fact, not mind having another child. This is incredibly stupid since I’m pretty sure the last one almost killed me and I’ve had my tubes tied. But I look around at the mess and the fighting and the kisses and my quickly growing baby girl and all I can think is, “I could do this one more time…”

Let the record show that I couldn’t and I won’t. Most days I’m thrilled with that decision. Most days.

My folks are here from home and it’s the most wonderful early Christmas present I could have asked for. Seeing my dad this relaxed and happy (albeit in excruciating pain due to a soon-to-be replaced worn out hip), playing with my kids and playing the piano and taking time to write is wonderful. And my sweet mother, what an incredible woman. I hope and pray that I can grow up and be something like her, she really gets that whole “Trying to be like Jesus” business.

Back to Turkey, we thought we were hiring a taxi to take us to Ephasus then back to Izmir to shop, but apparently we got hooked up with a ring of Taxi gangsters who kidnap tourists then herd them into specific shops.

Things started out fine, we were four families and three taxi’s. Our driver was nice enough but very irritated at my girlfriends who were firm and bossy as all get-out. Love those girls, I hate to think of where we would be if they wouldn’t have interfered and insisted the drivers didn’t have their way with us.

We hired a great guide in Ephasus. Personally, I had no idea where we were going or what we were doing or what the point of Ephasus even was. It was all old stones to me. But once we got there I was totally amazed at the magnificent ruined city. It’s a super old ruin with a massive amphitheater and early plumbing system, some of which they still use to this day. Without going into too much detail, they were incredibly advanced for their time (I can’t remember when that time was, but it was super long ago).

Holly, Rebecca and Megan, three of my dearest friends who were so fun to travel with.

Junie and I with the goddess of...victory? Whatever. She's super old.

Harrison and Kiyah were glued to their guidebooks. Best 2 euro ever.

Watching a master pottery thrower at our first forced shopping stop.

So when the taxi’s insisted on stopping at this first shop we thought, “Cool, our kids can watch them make real pottery!” And it was cool. The shop was interesting (and expensive), and all in all it was a pretty great stop.

Until we realized they had an agenda. This was the first of our forced shops, followed by a leather factory and a rug factory (we made then skip the rug place). What we really wanted them to do was take us to Izmir to the big bazar and let us roam free. Instead they took us from specialty shop to specialty shop and herded us in and out like cattle. Even when we finally got to the bazar they took us in one, and only one shop to buy oursouvenirs. Then they took us to one and only one restaurant to eat. It was obvious everyone involved had the system down to an oily shine.

It irritated me. I wanted to shop for hair bows in bulk and crap from China but instead I felt like a preschooler on a field trip.

One thing I found interesting was how different I was treated when my children were with me. Men in particular were quite respectful with the kids in tow, but the moment I was away from my family on my own they were lewd and suggestive. Having kids actually made me feel safer; my girlfriend Rebecca noticed the same thing.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! The food was good, but super overpriced. I prefer less ambiance and fewer euros. But since it was a holiday, I can't complain.

Rex walked by and this lady reached out and grabbed him and kissed him. He laughed, said "Aww!" and hugged her back. I had to take a picture, it was such a great universal gesture.

I I had to get a picture with this girl. I was having an international female crisis that day and couldn’t seem to get across to our taxi driver that I needed a pharmacy desperately. This amazing girl overheard my conversation, figured out what I needed, and took me by the arm a few blocks away to a pharmacy, found me Turkish feminine products (which are just like any other feminine products), helped me purchase them and returned me to my party. She hardly spoke any English and I don’t know her name but it was definitely a memorable event. It doesn’t matter what country you’re from, there are some things that cross all international boundaries. Being a girl is one of them.

I’m looking forward to getting back to Turkey for some serious shopping. I did manage to procure a wooden rolling pin for myself (4 euros) and a few Turkish pottery bowls. I liked them way more than the Polish pottery which really does nothing for me. All told, it was a fabulous Thanksgiving.

I have been sick this week. It’s that obnoxious flu that just won’t quit, nausea and headaches and total body weakness. I first contracted this flu on Monday and found myself down for the count until Tuesday night. I made a brief recovery and was feeling reasonably better.

Then yesterday came along. It was like Groundhog’s Day, a perfect repeat of my earlier  performance. Sick in bed, nauseated, incapable of changing anyone’s diaper or crawling to the kitchen to sprinkle Cheerios on the floor…trouble.

“Hello?” my husband said, answering his work phone with “hurry” behind his voice.

“ahmgunnadahyee..”

“What? Anne? Are you okay?”

“I’m gonna die,” I said, the very act of speaking enough to make my stomach play shake-n-bake. We talked for a moment about my illness and how fast he could get home, and then he finally said those three words I’d been avoiding.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Don’t say that!!” I croaked.

We have four children. Getting said babies here nearly broke me and no way am I going through that again. Besides we’ve got the perfect mix, boy boy girl girl. Our family is nice and modernly large; everyone knows four is the new seven.

After little Gigi came along I took permanent measures to make sure that this body would no longer appeal to cute little parasites–I’m pretty sure my doctor double knotted things just to ensure he wouldn’t have to deal with me ever again.

I called my sister this morning (night to her) and told her about my horrible flu bug that might or might not someday grow up and go to college.

“You know,” she said in her less than comforting way, “It does happen. We all know women who have had their tubes tied and then gotten pregnant. Besides, they say if it’s going to happen it usually happens early on.”

These were not the comforting words I was looking for. What I was counting on was one of those, “Oh, stop it Annie, you’ve just got the flu so go back to bed and call me in the morning.”

So here I sit, feeling nothing short of panic. If this is the flu, I’ve now added anxiety to it and the symptoms are pretty similar–cold sweats, nausea, headaches.

The icing on the cake? I was laying in bed an hour ago and suddenly remembered the most horrible thing. A few weeks back some of my girlfriends and I were playing Kitchen VooDoo where you dangle a needle over your wrist and ask the VooDoo kitchen spirits how many kids you’re going to have and in what particular order.

(I normally do not consider myself VooDoo material nor do I support the black arts in general, unless they involve dark chocolate. From Belgium.)

Over the years I’ve been roped into this game a few times starting when I was about sixteen. It has always been dead on with it’s predictions; four children, boy boy girl girl, stop.

But two weeks ago for the first time ever, the stupid little needle added a kid just to mess with my mind. Apparently it now thinks we’ve got one more child that needs someone to do his laundry.

Could this really be happening to me? Am I actually going to be part of that irritating 1% of women who finds herself face to face with Powers beyond her control?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how good God is with knots.

If you get to the end of this there is a link on youtube. I can’t decide, but I think I’m slightly horrified that I’m sharing this with you.

So I was walking through the decks on day six of our Italian cruise last week, headed back to the cabin when I heard the most atrocious European karaoke happening in one of the back lounges.

Let’s face it, if I was in charge of my life I would probably be a starving actress living in some miserable slummy little hole in New York City waiting for my big break. Lucky for me God is way better at this planning business; I’m much happier singing lullabies to my babies at night.

Most of the time.

I’ve got to admit that every once in a while I wish there was a back lounge somewhere looking for a mommy like me.

So I sauntered into the room and listened for a moment before discovering that I had happened upon the semi-finals of the cruise talent show. The original contestant pool started at 150 and the top seven were performing that night in the big theater.

I listened to the competition with a slight smile, thinking about how much fun I would have blowing them all out of the water.

Can I take a moment and discuss humility and how I really need to look into purchasing some?

Since I was already scheduled to sing at one of the lounges that evening (what? You know I’m a shameless microphone whore) it didn’t take much convincing to finagle a last minute audition.

I probably should have taken note when all the songs in the karaoke book were Italian. There was a small number of American jazz ballads that I recognized and only one I knew by heart, “Fever.” I gave it a whirl and made the top seven.

Now I had heard all but one of the other finalists during sound check and I’ll admit, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability. The others ranged from whiny to overly nervous, one dude was even using a piece of paper with his words on it. I was pretty much the only person without pit stains from anxiety.

That night I stood backstage as they read the line-up. I was slightly surprised to find I was performing second. Since I was obviously going to wipe the floor with all the Italians you would have thought they’d have saved the best for last, right?

The guy that went before me, Jay, was the only other non-Italian, a Brazilian kid who I hadn’t heard sing. He started singing and I suddenly didn’t feel so confident. The kid had pipes and he pretty much nailed his number. I figured they had probably put the best first. Yikes.

The scoring was two-fold; first the audience had an applause meter that went to 50 in increments of ten, then there was a panel of five judges. Jay only got a 30 on the applause meter and the judges were pretty tough on him, giving him mostly eights with a seven thrown in there. In no time it was Mama’s turn in the spotlight, and boy was I ready to roll.

I worked it stage right, I hit the left side, I even kissed up to the judges table. Sure, I forgot one word, but all things considered I was pleased enough with my performance. Heck, I threw it together a few hours before the show and still managed to deliver a solid rendition. It felt great.

Standing in front of the audience for the applause meter, I was pretty sure I’d get a good reading. We had a number of friends from our large group in the audience and they were  happily cheering me on. But when the meter hit 30, the MC shut them down and moved me over to the judges table.

That was my first sign that things were a little fishy.

Still, the judges were pretty great. I got three nine’s and two tens, although the judges that gave me tens seemed hesitant. I couldn’t figure out why until a few numbers later.

They weren’t supposed to give me good scores.

I sat back stage and listened to the rest of the show as every single Italian competitor beat the pants off me. Not necessarily in their singing, but in the applause meter and at the judges table. The guy who won? Oh yeah, it was the kid who used his crumbled piece of paper to read his lyrics. He got a perfect score, 50 from the audience and 50 from the judges.

I was in the bottom three.

Nobody serves humble pie like the Italians. Amanda Knox, I feel for you.

Click here to see my sorry self sing it on youtube.

Day 5

One day in Jerusalem. One day back in my city. One day to see and smell and taste and touch and buy all the crap that I’ve been vainly trying to grasp with my memory senses and how does the day begin?

In the bathroom, on the toilet, with the candlestick and a barf bag. My one day and I wake up sick as a dog with 40 minutes to get my family up, packed and ready before the bus ditched us (and trust me, they would have).

As I sat there in my mini cabin bathroom trying desperately to get a grip on my intestinal system, all I could think about was the very real fact that I might barf my way through the Old City and completely miss my one day.

So I prayed. It wasn’t anything big or dramatic, but it was fervent and desperate and as it ended I was hit with such an onslaught of [insert bathroom related symptoms] that I couldn’t move for another fifteen minutes.

(Let the record state that in hindsight I highly recommend the Mediterannean Barf Bug halfway through a cruise. It ruined my appetite for the remainder of the cruise and I am happy to report that I returned home one pound lighter than the day I left.)

When it was finally time to go I made my way to the bus in flats with greasy hair and zero makeup, my throat raw and my stomach blessedly empty.

And I didn’t get sick again.

Two hours later we crested the last of the hills in the Jerusalem suburbs and I looked, once more, on my beautiful city. This is one of those moments when words are so lame; Jerusalem far surpasses anything I could key out on this laptop.

Picture a city so beloved by so many races and religions and sects that despite their hatred towards one another (and we’re talking some serious deep issues here) they still manage to work and live and worship right on top of each other—sometimes taking turns in particularly holy places so everyone has access. Incredible and dramatic and routinely messy.

We drove right to the Mt. of Olives and our bus let us out to meet the rest of our group. They had managed to secure a very small amphitheater right on the crest of the ridge at the very top. It was a magnifiscent sight to look out over the Old city in the early morning light.

It was my turn to do the group devotional and I was feeling sick and weak and incredibly humbled by the situation.

Now I love words, but there is no doubt other people (like prophets) are way better at them than silly old me. And so, feet firmly planted on the Mt. of Olives, I read straight from Zechariah 14 and D&C 45 where it states:

“And then shall the Lord set his foot upon this mount, and it shall cleave in twain, and the earth shall tremble, and reel to and fro, and the heavens also shall shake. And the Lord shall utter his voice, and all the ends of the earth shall hear it; and the nations of the earth shall mourn, and they that have laughed shall see their folly…and then shall the Jews look upon me and say: What are these wounds in thine hands and in thy feet? Then shall they know that I am the Lord; for I will say unto them: These wounds are the wounds with which I was wounded in the house of my friends. I am he who was lifted up. I am Jesus that was crucified. I am the Son of God.”

I have to take a second and tell you that I struggled in Jerusalem 13 years ago. I expected it to be a hugely spiritual experience but continually found myself feeling empty, always waiting for some magical moment when the Spirit would bear witness to me in some big fat spiritual way that yes, it was true!

I knew it was true, I’d felt it thousands of times, but it seemed to evade me in Jerusalem all those years ago. The answers that I sought did not come until I was gone, and my time there has been a beautiful sweet and slightly bitter memory.

But on that mountain, in that moment, reading the words of Jesus Christ, I was overcome with their majesty and power and absolute truth.

I closed my scriptures and ended my devotional the only way I could think of. I sang.

Sick, weak, my voice in shreds I sang  “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” It was the second time I’ve sung that song with the walls of Jerusalem at my back, only this time I didn’t worry about how it sounded.

We don’t get many redo’s in life, hardly any now that I think about it, but that moment was a little gift just for me. Someone knew that I needed that chance to testify with no doubt or frustration or any of the concerns that had plagued me so long ago.

The rest of the day was wondrous. We visited the Garden Tomb and it was beautiful. Early in the 1900’s the garden was discovered by a British gentleman. It is not the old “Way of the cross” site that so many visit but a newer discovery that is, I believe, the actual tomb Jesus was laid in. I won’t go into the details but Calvary is within view and everything about the tomb and the remnants of the garden (now beautifully restored) bear witness that it is The Site.

Looking down into the old cistern that dates back to the time of Christ, proving that it was in fact a garden.

If I only had one place to visit in Israel that might be it.

After that we made a stop at Omar’s for olive wood. Would you believe that our friends Dan and Holly looked up on the walls of his shop and saw their family photo from and old Christmas card??!! Very small world.

Last time I was in Jerusalem I bought a cheaper nativity set because I didn’t want to spend the money for one at Omar’s. Instead, I bought from him a beautiful statue of Mary holding baby Jesus that has graced my piano for the past 12 years. This time I was determined to get a good nativity.

But I walked into the shop, gazed up on the top shelf, and what did I see? A cougar. A BYU cougar. I swear it growled at me. I wandered around for two dozen minutes with Jason trying to find something appropriately Christian and Jesus like, but that cat stalked me the entire time.

Needless to say, it didn’t take any convincing once Jason had it in his hands. I guess I wasn’t meant to have a nativity from Omar’s after all. The kids are all bananas for our new super devout cougar.

Someone should teach me how to take a real picture.

We spent the rest of the day wandering through the Old City, just like I wanted. The kids were fantastic, the Arabs and Jews were everywhere, and I didn’t throw up once. It is such an assault to the senses, entering through Damascus Gate, even in my sick condition I couldn’t help feeling energized by how very alive Jerusalem still is. Vegas has nothing on the Holy City.

Note the slightly concerned look. Such a brave soul, we made him pose for the first picture.

The Old City throbs with energy in this quarter, things and people are constantly in motion.

In front of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. You don't want to know how many times Gigi's blanket dropped on the ground that day.

As Jason pointed out to the boys, these were the same streets (a few layers up) that Nephi and his brothers ran through to escape Laban. All the time I spent in the Old City and I'd never thought of that before.

One last photo with our AMAZING tour guide, Tal, in front of the Western "Wailing" Wall. We love her, she rocked it. Also someone should brush my family's hair.

The only regret I have was not making it up to the BYU Jerusalem Center, but you can’t do everything and I wouldn’t change our day for the world. Oh Jerusalem, I will be back.

One last view of the Mt. of Olives where we started the day.

"Hey, take Donkey's picture!"

Here are highlights from our day in Olympia, Greece, the first of our port stops. Just the photos, then the dirt on Galilee. As I said, Harrison was having a snit, Rex was in his element. How many animals can you see?

"Everybody hates me!!"

"Baby Bird loves to see the world,"

"And now me and Blue Monkey..."

This place is so stupid.

The first Olympic track? Who cares...

Watching the sunset in Greece

Port 2: Haifa – Field Trip to Galilee

I’ve gotta say, I really didn’t have high expectations for today’s laundry list of holy sites. If I’m being completely real, I have to admit that dragging twentyish small children around adult centered religious sites didn’t sound like my idea of an inspirational day. Of course I wanted to go but I was prepared for the worst.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Today was perfect. It was simply the best day ever. I’ve got to give major props to our friends, the Shumates, who set the whole thing up. Arranging two tour busses in a discombobulated country like this is no light matter and they rocked it. I love my Sharmapedia and never want to leave home without her again.

Our first stop was Mt. Tabor, commonly known as the Mount of Transfiguration. This baby has wicked switchbacks. Thirteen years ago when I was here my roommate/best friend/travel companion forced me to join the throng of hikers. It was brutal.

Today my roommate decided that pushing a stroller up 17 paved switchbacks wasn’t his idea of a pilgrimage so we took the taxi. As we drove up that mountain I was overwhelmed with the memory of that dreadful hike. It never ended. Just when you thought you were about to get to the top, another switchback would laugh in your sweaty little face.

As we stepped out of the bus and made our way on the old paved road toward the beautiful sun soaked chapel perched on top of the mountain my heart cried out for my Melissa girl. It almost felt wrong to be here without her by my side, her presence was so powerful. Melissa, I miss you! I love you, my dear friend! Thank you for making me hike that blasted mountain, for giving me such a powerful (cheap) memory to bask in.

There was a beautiful Catholic mass being held while we snapped photos.

Just as we were about to get back onto our bus at the base of the mountain, my heart swelling with memories, who do you think walked off the bus next to us? Oh yeah, a group of BYU Jerusalem students making their own pilgrimage to the top of Mt. Tabor. I’ll admit, I cried a little.

Our next stop was the River Jordan. It’s still there with all that lovely murky green water lazing along under big weepy trees while hoards of Christians line up to rent white baptismal sheaths so they can take a dip. Personally you couldn’t get me near that river, I don’t care who was baptized in it (is that bad?). The thing is full of nasty old catfish and these massive river rats called Poi something that look suspiciously like a slightly smaller version of an ROUS—Rodent Of Unusual Size. Just saying.

Disgusting.

After the River Jordan we made a quick pit stop in Tiberias for fabulous falafels and Coke Light. We took our bus of small children to a little chapel right on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. It’s the site marking the Savior’s return to his apostles when Peter was out fishing. We wandered into the lovely little chapel there (I remembered it vividly) for a devotional and then out to the water. Of all the things my kids will remember about this trip, I’m certain that playing in the Sea of Galilee will be top of their lists. It was simply awesome. The weather was perfect, the sun was starting to set, and as our kids laughed and splashed I could see why the Savior spent so much time around the beautiful sea.

Most beautiful day ever

We finished our trip at the Mt. of Beattitude, a breathtaking sacred site marking the Savior’s Sermon on the Mount. As our friend Dan gave the devotional and talked about Jesus leaving the multitude to climb up the hill, I thought about that multitude. Frankly, I’m guessing that a decent number of them were milling around hoping for free food. With all the local miracles surrounding the Savior,He must have been quite a celebrity to the downtrodden.

But it says that Christ took his disciples up the mountain. I have to wonder about the people who stayed behind, unwilling to make that hike with Jesus. Isn’t it interesting that the distinguishing factor between a disciple and a groupy came down to laziness?

That thought might have made me a little nervous.

We ended the day at Nazareth (which was amazing) and saw the massive church lit up in the darkness. The building is massive and lovely and despite it’s hot political location, makes you want to worship.

We walked back to the bus in the light of the moon...

It was a perfect day. As I climbed the bus for our ride back I was amazed at that our prayers had been answered so thoroughly. Tomorrow we’re entering the Holy City. I’m so excited…

Today I gave the baby (14 mos) a plate of cut up grapes and cheese. She looked up at me with her little toothy grin and said, “Danke!”

It was the first time she’s ever said thank you. I don’t know if anything could have made my day better than to hear that sweet little angel tell me (in German) thanks for her simple little lunch.

It got me thinking about this Thanksgiving so I decided to do a little research and see if I could peel back the many layers of gratitude and come up with something deep and soul changing to write about.

Turns out there’s no such thing where gratitude is concerned. Gratitude isn’t complicated. We don’t have to dig deep into the recesses of our blessings to truly be grateful, we just have to start with the first person/object/circumstance nearest us and work our way out.

For instance, I can hear my two middle babies playing in the living room. They’re taking turns pushing each other around the downstairs tiles on a big plastic tricycle, trying to see who can go the fastest without crashing into Mommy’s hutch.

I have babies, what a blessing. They are all healthy so double that. And don’t ask me how, but at least 75% of the time they love and play with each other. I’m grateful for kids who cry when they think someone in the family is lost, and are quick to offer each other ouchie kisses if I don’t get there fast enough.

And speaking of those ugly downstairs tiles, it gets cold here in Germany. The air is freezing and damp and my house is wall to wall tile floors. Never has a person ever been more grateful for the miraculous luxury of heated tiles than I. They might be old and ugly, but I can step into the kitchen each morning and feel blessed heat beneath my feet.

While we’re on the topic of kitchens, can I get a hallelujah for microwaves this Thanksgiving? That invention is the jaggersauce to my schnitzel. Sure it beeps incessantly when the food is finished, but maybe it just wants a little grateful attention. This year I will give my microwave a good scrub and thank it for all those healthy electromagnetic radiation waves that give me a hotdog in 30 seconds.

And hot dogs, how great are they? Not only do we have microwaves to cook our food, but we have food. Everywhere in America families are hungry. This Thanksgiving I can’t help but wonder what all those other hungry children are doing, the ones who can’t afford to eat turkey and stuffing.

It’s easy over the holidays to get caught up with the shopping and the eating and the self-involved partying. But not everyone is so lucky. Whatever your blessings are, someone will always have it better, but someone will always have it worse. Which ones are you noticing?

If you haven’t done it already I suggest taking out a pen or a keyboard and making a thoughtful list of the things you’re grateful for this Thanksgiving. It doesn’t have to be eloquent or unique, and it’s not about impressing people with your depth of character. Take time to make a written record of all the good things you’ve got going for you this Thanksgiving. It’s far healthier than pumpkin pie.

I’m thankful for Jesus Christ, and for my hardships and blessings. You can’t have one without the other and I wouldn’t trade my plate for anything, no matter how good the gravy looks.

Lastly, Happy Thanksgiving to my wonderful family home on the harbor! To my parents, Rex and Diane Valentine, my brothers and sisters who are gathering together with their own kids and grandkids to celebrate. Kerry, I wish we could be there with all of you this year…bleh! Now I’m crying.

Today was another leisurely flu-filled day at sea (two family members down, four to go). It was also the Sabbath, but keeping it holy isn’t easy when you’re surrounded by gluttonous buffets of pretty darn good grub.

As the afternoon came into focus I found myself with a moment alone. I walked up to level 9, filled a plate with pizza and made my way to a small table by the window for some much needed personal reflection.

Frankly, I don’t sit around with my thoughts very often and it was almost uncomfortable to put my feet up and stare at the waves without engaging my body in busy work.

Soon my mind turned to the Holy Land. We disembark tomorrow morning and will be spending the day around the Sea of Galilee, including a few sites like Nazareth and Mt. Tabor (the mount of Transfiguration, one of my personal favorites).

As I started thinking about the Holy Land, I was overcome with the most horrible sense of panic. I’m not ready. We have had two months to plan and prepare for this trip and here I am, 14 hours out and I’m realizing that I’ve been so busy getting ready for the Holy Land that I forgot to get ready for the Holy Land.

My packing was impeccable. We have enough of absolutely everything, and I was even proactive enough to remember the forgotten essentials like Miralax and two kinds of perfume. I’m organized and prepared for just about any child induced catastrophe, but in the midst of so much planning I have forgotten why I was packing to begin with.

I’m going back to Jerusalem and I’m not ready.

Throwing down my pizza crust I ran back to my room fueled by dread. I tore out my Bible and frantically began checking to see how fast I could read the New Testament.

“Children!” I called, “Quick, come sit around Mommy, we need to…read something!” Jason was looking at me like I had lost my brain or perhaps found Jesus for the first time.

“Honey, you okay?” he asked.

“I just…we need to study the New Testament. Come on, turn to Matthew…”

I know what you’re thinking. How could someone who knows better be so negligent in their spiritual preparation? How could I let the time slip away from me without planning fantastic devotionals and family musical numbers centered on the Life of Christ to prepare us for this truly monumental pilgrimage?

I started searching frantically for something that would apply to tomorrow’s site list, reading a random verse here and another there. My anxiety grew and I felt foolishly like a virgin who was low on oil.

But my friends, I have to tell you that as I was reading I felt the Holy Ghost place a gentle hand on my soul.

Perhaps we haven’t watched enough National Geographic episodes on Jerusalem or talked as often about Christ and his miracles here on the Earth as we should have. But every time we kneel in family prayer, every day when we read from the scriptures together (don’t ask me why we haven’t  been hanging out in the NT), every song about Jesus and every successful family home evening, I am preparing my family for the Holy Land.

I have been to Israel and will return there again. But that has nothing to do with the fact that I know Jesus lives. He is my Savior and I knew it long before I ever stepped into the Garden Tomb or gazed upon the ancient olive trees in Gethsemane.

I am ready to go back tomorrow. Whether or not people in my family are puking or pouting or pooping their pants, I know the Spirit will burn in my heart and remind me once more why I do what I do. Jesus once was a little child and I can’t wait to show my children where it all went down.

Today. In many ways today was a day that I never want to see again. I blame the naked Olympic ghosts that spend their time haunting the small children who visit the ruins, I know they were trying to spur my little champs on to a wrestling match.

We departed the ship around noon and rented a car for the 20 minute drive to the original Olympic stadium.

Here’s the thing about Harrison these days. He’s a wonderful kid, but at eight we’re seeing more of the easily offended, regularly nasty older brother who has no patience or thought for anyone but himself. If his siblings so much as look at him he’s liable to either burst into tears or cause bodily harm.

Then there’s Rex. Rex loves Harrison. He wants nothing more than to be best friends with his “best buddy Harrison.” It breaks my heart to see Harry treat Rex with unkindness, especially when other kids are around. Rex doesn’t have many friends (those he does have are all stuffed with cotton batting) and he could use some brotherly support.

Harrison got in trouble when we first got to the stadium today. Instead of moving past the problem, he spent the entire day making everyone within range as miserable as possible. He moped and pouted and worked himself into such a lathered up snit that by the time we finally got home tonight I wanted nothing more than to leave him with the custom agents as undeclared baggage.

(I have to say that Rex had so much fun taking his animals to “see the world!” He set up a number of candid photo ops (the pics are coming I promise) for me to capture his animals exploring Greece and was the model minor traveler. He was also the only kid that got to pick a souvenir for good behavior.)

By the time we were back on the ship and settled down for the evening (did I mention Georgia throwing up in Jason’s face on the way home?) our family was strung tighter than cat gut. I think the icing came when Harry refused to participate with any of the other kids in our group for an evening of movies and games. I thought Jason was going to jump ship he was so frustrated with Harry’s bad attitude.

We closed the evening without a prayer and went our separate ways (most of which landed us all in the same teensy little cabin).

“Harrison?” I said in a moment of privacy while trying to pull him out from under the bed where he had lodged himself for a good pouty cry session. I felt so ill equipped to handle this serious parenting stuff, where’s the manual on under the bed situations?

How do I explain to him that he’s choosing his attitude? That his refusal to apologize, his death grip on harboring offenses toward us for disciplining him, his cruelty and continual impatience with his little brother and sister are ruining his beautiful spirit?

I can’t do this for him. I can’t save him or make him feel remorse by denying him ice cream and lollipops. This is something my son has to learn for himself; how to let go of his pride and apologize when he’s done wrong.

Without going into detail, we had a painful talk about the Savior and His atonement. We talked about Gethsemane, a place we’re a mere 48 hours from visiting, and how the Lord sacrificed so much so we could be forgiven for these little, damning errors.

It was a hard discussion. I didn’t mince words and he didn’t like hearing it, but I can’t watch my child pout his way into eternal misery now, can I?

Finally, after a few suggested attempts, my boy hit his knees with me and opened his heart up to the Heavens. And as he prayed about visiting the Garden Tomb talked about Jesus Christ and he asked Father in Heaven to forgive him for today’s transgressions.

Right when he said that I felt it. As tangible as a piece of heavy clothing, I felt his own burdens of sin removed from his sweet little shoulders and my heart burned right along with his. He experienced forgiveness and I felt it with him. It was incredible, never have I felt more privileged.

We are not the best parents. We probably sigh too loudly and long for freedom more often than we should, but I’m so grateful that Father has trusted us with these little children. What an honor to watch my child grow and learn and conquer his own set of struggles. Oh, please help us be better tomorrow.

Oh Heavenly waves, I never want to see dry land again.

Yesterday afternoon we officially set sail. As Rex likes to say, we’re “off to see the world!”

Since our move to Germany we’ve been hearing that the fastest and cheapest way to see things over here is by ship. I have decided that I don’t care if I see anything more than the railing of this baby, I want to live aboard forever.

Today was our first full day at sea. After breakfast Jason and I got friendly with the Kid Club, a little bonus built into our ticket price.

Here’s the thing about traveling with four small children ages 8 and under, we spend so much time throwing goldfish crackers at them and trying to keep everyone from peeing in public that our moments of vacation happiness are about as common as a clean bathroom in Turkey.

But this morning at 9:47 we dropped our kids off and tried not to do a jig on our way out the door. Granted, we didn’t get to leave the baby but without the three oldest we felt like honeymooners.

The best thing about this cruise ship is how incredibly young I feel. Around here if you don’t have cataracts you’re positively juvenile; the crowd is definitely leaning aft in the age department. I thought it was interesting at breakfast that they didn’t seem able to keep the prune bowl full, very telling.

Then again, cruise constipation is no laughing matter and there is definitely fiber to that kind of wisdom. (Too much? Yeah, me too.)

And so we spent the morning doing our number one favorite pastime. We played Settlers. Long live Catan!

We picked up the kids around three only to discover that they were invited back for dinner and evening entertainment. The kid zone? Open until 11:30 pm. For serious. I don’t think my kids have even heard of eleven-thirty before today.

We went to dinner with the grown-ups and would have enjoyed a long and leisurely meal if Georgia (14 mos) hadn’t spent the first ten minutes yelling for a hot dog only to follow it up ten minutes later with her lung busting version of “ALL DONE!” while shaking her hands vigorously at anyone and everyone who passed by.

And here I sit, 9:35 at night, with my three youngest snoring away in their bunks and my husband trying not to doze so I can keep him up long enough to go dancing at 11:30 when the discotec opens. Please sweetheart, stay awake. Just two more hours…

**Later that night, or should I say early the next morning…

Holy dancing Batman, I think Jason really does love me after all.

Even though he knows how to do a decent number of traditional social dances (cha cha, two step, waltz) getting Jason to cut any kind of rug is nearly impossible. We’ve had epic fights over his dancing refusal and my misbehaving feet.

We took off to get the kids around eleven planning to dance for 20-30 minutes before picking them up. I had previously scoped out the situation and found a great little floor with a fantastic piano dude. Lots of people dancing, we’d fit right in.

Of course when we got there the floor was empty. This was quickly followed by Jason having a public display of musicality panic attack. People might WATCH us. We took the elevator to the top floor and stood over the railing, looking seven floors down while we debated what to do.

I tried to get him to dance with me up there in private but he wouldn’t let go of that blasted railing. I gave it up without a fuss (he was so cute gripping the railing as he fought his little dancing demons) and we picked up the kids. Once everyone was snug in their beds and the clock was winding down I decided to get ready for bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, “Aren’t we going dancing?” I didn’t have to be asked twice.

And thus commenced my favorite night ever. We danced the night away, literally, and he made me feel beautiful and adored and romanced and all those things mommy’s really need to feel once in a while.